Proximity
by Quillinx
Summary: What's it like to get too close? To open up to the one person you didn't think of shielding yourself from? Is this suddenly close proximity real, or are you just imagining it? Very vague Mycroft/"Anthea"
1. Positioning

**i wrote a little three-parter for mycroft/anthea ^^ this didn't take very long so i'm sorry if there's any mistakes aaah **

**thank you to misty for helping me with this c":**

**hope you enjoy! each chapter is divided into five little snippets.**

* * *

_positioning is key_

_patience is too much to ask_

_proximity is everything_

He watches her without seeing her, and she just watches him. He can feel her eyes on the back of his head, scrutinizing, measuring… making sure he's alright. That he's not driving himself into the ground. That he's not running on five times the normal recommendation of energy pills. That he's not just simply having a bad day, in which case she knows how to make her general atmosphere somehow soothing, without even saying anything. If Mycroft ever had that particular people skill, he lost or deleted it long ago.

She's confusing even to him, an enigma, always so damn _unreadable_- and not because she's hiding anything, but rather because she's not hiding anything. Perfectly confident, unruffled, unworried, she keeps her secrets so casually that nobody would guess that they were there in the first place. Even he can only get a glimpse, and then only when she wants him to.

Today is a bad day, and she's not here, and so he puts his pen down, for just a moment, and allows himself to wish she were, for just a moment, and then it's back to business as usual.

* * *

He keeps his face blank. A confession of failure from her is unprecedented, and he has nothing to say, no carefully preconstructed statement that will reassure her or horrify her, only dumb astonishment. She does not fail, but she has, and so it takes about a heartbeat's worth of time more than it should have to arrange his thoughts. Surprise is unfamiliar to him, but she can elicit it simply by failing.

* * *

They meet at the coffee machine and he draws back slightly, an invitation for her to go first, and she hesitates, an invitation for him to go first, and he realizes how ridiculous the whole minute nonverbal conversation is but she gives it no thought. Eventually she does go first, popping a paper cup from the stack and filling it one-handed, as if she is used to doing thing while holding her phone. She stands aside and he fills his cup too, and then they both reach for the sugars at the same time, but there's only one package left and both of them just look at the sugar rack for at least five seconds. Finally, by some mutual agreement, they both turn away and leave the lone sugar packet in its rack, heading back to their separate stations. He doesn't look back at her, but he knows she is looking back at him, and probably smiling.

* * *

He's drowning in papers, papers on his desk and on the floor and on the shelves and in his hands and fluttering round and round in his head which is always -always!- so neatly organized except for today because papers. He wants Sherlock, wants John Watson, wants somebody to come and comfort him and doesn't want to keep his damn _pride_ for once, but he knows that it won't happen and so he signs another paper and feels like he's going insane. Maybe he already is, to spend his time signing papers to earn more papers in order to be promoted to signing more important papers to earn even _more_ papers.

That's insanity if anything is, he thinks wearily, and signs another.

The door creaks open and he wants to whip around but doesn't- keeping up appearances after all- and then a few seconds later- _slow!_ - he wonders who could be opening his private office door without permission, except perhaps Sherlock, and then only because he's insufferably rude.

He turns his head and it's not Sherlock, it's dark brown hair and caramel skin and _oh her._

She doesn't say anything, and neither does he, and he's too tired to put on his mask around her, not when that particular battle's lost anyways, and so he just turns back around and signs another paper. She walks over to his desk and puts a hand on his shoulder, which was _uncalled for_ and _inappropriately familiar but_ _it feels nice_ and so he tilts his head away from her and lets himself smile. Just a little.

* * *

He twiddles the umbrella and she taps on her BlackBerry and there is silence in the backseat except for the rattle-rumble that purrs from the wheels of the private car, driving through the night. He usually sits in the front, but today he chooses to sit in the back next to her, and she doesn't complain or question or even, he suspects, wonder. She just accepts the fact and moves a little closer to the window to give him more room and continues to type on that BlackBerry. It's not familiarity, they both know that, and he gives it too much thought and she gives it none at all, and finally and immediately they both decide that it is simply a matter of changed proximity and leave it at that. They always leave it at that.


	2. Patience

**pure dialogue. hopefully not insufferably boring.**

**i have no idea what the political situation is right now, don't kill me for not doing my research /aah**

**also i'm PRETTY sure that goeppert-meyer was some kind of scientist.**

**so that doesn't fit at all |||D**

* * *

"Assistant? Bring me the Goeppert-Meyer files, please."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

"May I ask your opinion on the situation in Russia?"

"...It does not concern us yet, sir, but it soon may. I'd advise taking action as soon as possible."

"Good, we are thinking along the same lines."

"Pleased to be of assistance, sir."

"Dismissed."

* * *

"Care for a cup of tea?"

"That actually sounds lovely."

"...Sit down… do you take sugar?"

"No, thank you."

"Here."

"Thanks, sir."

"...Have you finished the report on Chandler v. Law?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good."

* * *

"And then he bloody drags Dr. Watson to there of all places, never mind his poor pregnant wife left at home who immediately takes his handgun and goes after him, thank the Lord she wasn't arrested for knocking out those two thugs in that alleyway, and then- come in."

"Sir?"

"What is it, assistant?"

"I… we can hear you from the lobby, sir, sorry."

"Oh."

"I just wanted to, er. Let you know."

"Thank you for… alerting me to that fact. I did not mean to broadcast my unwanted personal matters."

"That's perfectly all right, sir."

* * *

"Sir?"

"Mr Holmes? Sir?"

"Mr Holmes!"

"..."

"Sir…?"

"...Oh. Oh dear."

"Hmm?"

"Apologies, I didn't mean to wake you."

* * *

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...Thank you."


	3. Proximity

**last chapter-ish thing c:**

**hope you enjoyed this little three-parter! i wanted to go for a kiss or something, but it didn't really fit sighs**

**thanks for reading!**

* * *

Mycroft notices something between them- realizes they're becoming dangerously close when she's the one that catches him as he stumbles out of 221B, bleeding. Not because she catches him, but because she has bandages packed in her handbag for this very purpose.

So he fires her. It wouldn't do to get too attached.

He doesn't think it's been a bloody week until she's back again, because he can't manage without her and that's worrying. He has to be independent. It's his job. He's not allowed to rely on anybody.

Well, he doesn't rely on her. Does he? No, he doesn't. No. Negative. Never. She's just another personal assistant. Most likely she'll be gone within the year anyways, sick of the regulations and secrecy and tedium and … inscrutable boss.

He winces and decides to focus on paperwork.

* * *

Sherlock notices, being Sherlock, but he's not sure of what he sees, except that his brother is smiling sometimes in a non-condescending manner. He isn't really sure what that's supposed to mean, and doesn't really want to know either. He also notices that the "Anthea" woman has been coming around the flat an awful lot lately, which means that Mycroft now trusts her. Regrettably, it's always the most trusted of his minions that he sends to check up, when he doesn't darken the door himself. Just another sign of his brother's maddening concern for his well-being.

Sherlock puts it out of his mind and shuts the door on the damn woman's face. She won't mind; she must used to it. She works for Mycroft, he thinks scornfully, how could she not?

* * *

John, being John, notices and sees, at once, both more and less than Sherlock did and ever could. He notices how Mycroft doesn't come here alone anymore, he comes with that attractive PA with the caramel skin (embarrassment for a brief second) and he witnesses (at a safe distance, from the window) the scene with the punch and the blood and the bandages. He shouldn't be surprised that Mycroft's personal assistant carried bandages around in her handbag, but he was. But while Sherlock sees the exact stress level from the amount of blood spattering to the ground, John sees the briefly surprised and _thankful_ look on Mycroft's face as the PA hands him a bandage and is surprised.

* * *

Molly notices the attractive woman in a neat navy-blue skirt suit, leaning against her albumen slides, but doesn't have the courage to strike up a conversation. Instead, she works her way cautiously around the woman's texting fingers to grab a fresh cleansing bowl. Without even meaning to, her eyes latch onto a word- more like an abbreviation, if you could call it that- on the woman's screen. Embarrassed, she hurries away to another room quickly.

_MH_

* * *

The PA herself is the first to know, but the last to show it. She continues to adjust herself to her employer's changing needs and wants, and when his desire matches up with her own, so much the better. So she allows herself to get closer, not minding it when he shuts her off, but quietly enjoying it when he lets her push her foot just a little more into that crack in his ever-closed door. Patience is the way to win things, and win people over, and she has nothing if not miles and miles of patience at her disposal.

She does her job. He does his. Maybe things will never progress any further between them. Maybe nothing will ever happen. She can't honestly say to herself that it doesn't really matter, because it does matter, it matters a lot more than she lets it show.

They both walk the tightrope, and they go on functioning in close proximity to each other, never daring to dream that someday the tips of their fingers might brush.


End file.
